


speak, if you can

by scootsaboot



Series: something wicked [6]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Dubious Consent, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, consensual torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 09:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11666406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scootsaboot/pseuds/scootsaboot
Summary: Rhys would never betray Jack.





	speak, if you can

**Author's Note:**

> takes place after _this way comes_

_THEN_

Most of the _cruciatus_ sessions take place out in the backyard or in the sitting room. Jack isn’t usually present, leaving Nisha or Rhys to conduct them more often than not. He doesn’t have time to get hands-on with all of his followers, as much as he’d like to sometimes. Rhys and Nisha are trustworthy, though, competent enough that Jack is confident in leaving them in charge.

Rhys’ sessions, though, Jack conducts himself.

He always has time for his favorite, his most loyal, most obedient. Rhys is special--has done more to prove himself than any of his other followers combined. Even Nisha and Wilhelm pale in comparison to the kid’s absolute _devotion_ to Jack. There’s no one Jack trusts more.

Which is why Rhys’ sessions are always the longest, why he’s pushed the hardest--pushed until sometimes even Jack thinks he might break. He never does. Every session they finish, Rhys looks up at him through the tears, fire in his eyes, revealing _nothing_. The keeper of Jack’s most closely guarded secrets.

Jack knows this session will be no different. Rhys will scream and cry and _hurt,_ but he’ll come out stronger, more resilient. Jack has to know he’ll be ready for anything the Ministry throws at him in the unlikely event that he’s captured.

There’s a knock at the door, and Jack looks up from his writing desk. He waves a hand and the lock slides out of place and the door slowly swings open, revealing the face of just the person Jack has been waiting for.

“Rhysie,” Jack grins and leans back in his chair.

Rhys steps into the bedroom and quietly shuts the door behind him. “Jack,” Rhys says in return, the corners of his mouth turning upward. That just _tickles_ Jack, how happy Rhys always is to see him. On anyone else it would be pathetic, but Rhys wears it well--the starry eyes and desperate need for approval--still just as strong as the day they met.

Rhys lets his cloak fall from his shoulders and hangs it on the rack by the door. Those pale, thin fingers reach for the knot of his tie next, pulling it loose from his throat. The tie slips loose around Rhys’ neck, and he puts it up along with his coat, before bending down to pull off his boots. They’re white snakeskin. Expensive. Jack knows because he paid for them during their last trip to Diagon Alley. That had been at least a month ago--and the boots are still the same pristine white as when Rhys pulled them out of the box, enchanted as they were with a dirt-repelling charm.

Jack likes them on Rhys. They suit him, make his long legs look impossibly longer, make people stop and turn their heads. Rhys preens under the attention, always does; he looks good with Jack’s money on him.

Rhys sets the boots against the closet door, pressed together and ready to be slipped into again much later. Rhys is left in his blue button-down shirt, black slacks and patterned socks; he still looks well put-together, like he’s on his way to a nice dinner.

That’ll change soon.

Jack tosses back what’s left of his glass of whiskey and sets it down on his desk with a _clink_ . Rhys is watching him now, eyes focused and head held high, waiting. He’s come a long way from their first session. His legs don’t shake anymore. Rhys doesn’t have to _pretend_ he isn’t afraid; he’s not. Not of the cruciatus spell, of torture, or physical pain. Not anymore. Normally, that would piss Jack off--having someone under him who doesn’t fear his wrath--but with Rhys, he finds he doesn’t mind. Jack knows how to hurt him in other ways, if he ever needs to. If he ever _wants_ to.

He reaches for his wand, wraps his fingers tight around the handle as he stands.

“Five minutes to start,” Jack lies. “Count down in your head.”

Rhys nods, takes a small breath, his shoulders tensing.

Jack raises his wand. “ _Crucio_.”

Rhys’ eyes close as soon as the spell hits him, his breath leaving him all at once. He only stays on his feet for a few seconds before his knees give out and he collapses to the floor, back hitting the ground with a _thud_. The blood drains from his face, leaving him stricken and pale and shaking, hands grabbing uselessly at the plush carpet.

Jack sinks back into his chair, eyes never leaving Rhys’ writhing form. His shirt gets rucked up from his thrashing, pulling loose from his pants and revealing his quivering stomach. It’s a full thirty seconds before Rhys starts to make noise--little whimpers at first, wet and hitched, and then as Jack doesn’t let up, he starts to scream.

Jack has never been on the business end of the _Cruciatus Curse_ , but Rhys has told him how it feels.

“ _Like being set on fire from the inside_ ,” he’d said, still shaking from the curse. “ _Like your bones are being ground to dust and someone’s pushing acid through your veins._ ”

Rhys’ screams pitch in volume and Jack can see tears squeezing out from behind his eyelids, dripping heedlessly down his face. He’s practically convulsing on the ground, limbs shaking so hard he looks to be in danger of losing them.

Back when they’d first started, Jack had wondered if Rhys wouldn’t eventually just pass out from the pain. He never has, as much as Jack pushes him--Jack thinks it has something to do with the nature of the curse. It’s inescapable, can go on until the caster decides to make it stop, or it drives the person to insanity.

Jack isn’t stupid. He knows when Rhys is nearing his limit, and while Jack will push him _to_ it, he’s mindful not to cross that line. Rhys is useless to him as a vegetable. Jack knows there are laws in place to prevent the use of Unforgivable Curses on those the Aurors have captured. This...this is a _precaution_ , because he also knows that Tassiter doesn’t play by the rules.

Rhys’ screams are growing hoarse now, his chest heaving as he struggles to draw in breath.

One minutes passes, and then three. Five.

Rhys’ eyes fly open right at the mark, unfocused and wide, searching for Jack. He yells and twists his legs, kicking at the floor and sobbing openly as Jack doesn’t dismiss the curse. It’s for his own good. If Tassiter ever gets ahold of Rhys, he won’t go easy on him. He won’t tell him how long the pain is going to last.

Jack feels something dark and heavy settle in his chest at the idea of Tassiter getting his hands on Rhys, of doing _this_ to him. It makes his blood boil--and his anger seems to travel through the curse, because Rhys flails violently, throwing his head back and smacking his skull against the ground. His mouth is hanging open, drool leaking over his bottom lip, shiny on his chin.

The session goes on for the next hour; Jack gives Rhys small breaks in between curses, just a couple seconds to come back from the brink. By the time he lets up for good, Rhys is motionless on the floor, eyes half-lidded as he stares at nothing. Blood is dripping from his nose, sliding down the side of his face and mingling with his tears.

Jack sets his wand on his desk and gets to his feet, his chair creaking under the shifted weight. He crouches down beside Rhys’ still form and presses one hand against his chest. It rises and falls beneath his fingers, and he can feel Rhys’ wildly beating heart.

“Alright sweetheart,” Jack says, giving him a shake. “Time to get up.”

Rhys slowly meets Jack’s eyes and swallows. He lifts a trembling hand and grasps at Jack’s shirt. Jack grins down at him before slipping his hands beneath him and hauling him up into his arms. He sits Rhys down on the edge of the bed and reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief. Jack wipes the mess from Rhys’ face--the still-flowing tears, the spit, the blood--until he’s clean. When Jack lets go of him, Rhys slumps backwards on the bed, boneless.

Jack shakes the handkerchief and it becomes clean again; he shoves it back in his pocket and presses a knee on bed, leaning over Rhys and bracketing his arms on either side of his head.

“You’re so good for me, aren’t you Rhysie?” Jack murmurs, taking in Rhys’ disheveled hair, his blown pupils. Rhys looks up at him like a starving man upon a feast, some color returning to his face and turning it pink. He nods jerkily and reaches for Jack, grasping weakly at the material of his shirt.

“I know you’d never betray me,” Jack continues, pressing his nose against Rhys’ neck, breath fanning over his sweaty skin. Rhys shivers beneath him, whimpering when Jack presses his lips to the brand on his throat. “I just have to be _sure_.” Jack says. “I have to be sure.” Jack slides his hand down Rhys’ chest, soaks in the way Rhys’ breath hitches. He’s always so sensitive after their sessions.

Jack pulls away and reaches for Rhys’ legs, rearranging him so he’s fully stretched out on the bed, still on his back, watching Jack’s every movement through his half-lidded eyes. Post _Cruciatus_ session is a good look on Rhys, almost as good as when Jack’s fucking him. Jack unbuttons Rhys’ shirt and pulls it open, revealing his pale chest, turning pink as his flush spreads. He tugs Rhys’ pants and briefs down his legs next, and lets them fall beside the bed, leaving Rhys almost completely naked.

The bed dips under Jack’s weight as he kneels over Rhys. “My good boy,” Jack says just to feel Rhys shiver beneath him again, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out and touch. He can’t, not now, not after an hour-long session. Rhys has told Jack how heavy his body feels after their sessions, how sore his muscles are. Jack loves it, loves having Rhys boneless and needy underneath him.

Jack trails his hand up the soft expanse of Rhys’ thigh and flicks at Rhys’ cock, getting hard under Jack’s attention. Rhys inhales sharply, hips twitching; Jack grins and takes a hold of those hips before rolling Rhys over onto his stomach. Rhys huffs out a breath and presses his cheek against the pillow, one arm tucked against his side while the other grips at the bedding.

Fuck, Jack’s already half-hard from watching Rhys writhe on the floor. He grinds his clothed dick against Rhys’ ass with a groan.

“You did so good tonight, pumpkin,” Jack says, leaning over Rhys toward the nightstand. He pulls open the drawer and grabs a small bottle of lubricant, before returning to his position above Rhys. “I’m so proud of my special boy.”

Rhys moans into the pillow, his shoulders going tense when Jack spreads his cheeks and presses a wet thumb against his hole.

“Relax, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Jack all but coos, running his thumb across Rhys’ pink skin, digging it into the spot right above his balls just to make him twitch. Rhys does, his foot thumping against the bed as he looks up at Jack from the corner of his eye. Jack presses a finger in, and Rhys buries his face into the pillow as Jack starts to work him open, in and out of that tight heat.

Jack’s eager to get Rhys on his dick, high on the feeling of Rhys enduring an hour’s worth of torture for _him_ . It’s taken a long time for them to work up to this point; in the beginning, Rhys couldn’t last longer than five minutes. Jack has trained him well--has worked so _hard_ to get Rhys to where he is now--and he deserves his reward.

Jack slips a second finger in alongside the first, scissoring them apart, stretching Rhys open, getting him ready to take Jack’s cock. The cries Rhys is muffling into the pillow go straight to Jack’s dick, straining against his pants. Jack preps Rhys quickly, perfunctorily, before he slides his fingers out completely.

He groans when he unzips himself, pushing his pants down to his thighs, and takes his dick in his hand. Jack strokes himself, lubing up; one of these days, he’ll get Rhys nice and open _before_ the session starts, so he can just get to the good stuff when they finish. Pre-cum dribbles from the tip of his cock as he positions himself at Rhys’ hole.

Rhys is tight around him as he starts to press in, his hips twitching and shuddering even as the rest of him lays still. Jack rocks forward, sinking his cock further into Rhys’ tight hole. He hisses when he bottoms out, balls resting against the curve of Rhys’ ass--Rhys’ fingers are clenched tight in the sheets and his eyes are screwed shut.

“Shit, that’s good,” Jack says, nudging his knees against Rhys’ thighs, hands wrapping around his bony hips so he can pull Rhys half into his lap. Rhys whimpers at the movement, clenching tighter around Jack. “So fucking tight,” Jack groans, grinding his cock inside Rhys.

Jack rocks his hips back, then forward, fucking into Rhys and forcing a ragged breath out of him. He does it again and starts up a rhythm, slow at first, but deep, thrusting his cock in to the hilt every time. Rhys remains limp and takes it, limbs twitching occasionally when Jack fucks into him particularly hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the quiet room along with Jack’s heavy breathing and Rhys’ muffled cries.

God, Jack has been looking forward to this. Ever since DeQuidt and Blake had been captured and thrown in Azkaban, things have been a little...hectic. They’d had to deal with Nakayama--Jack had to make sure he wouldn’t be blindsided again. He refuses to lose anyone else to Tassiter.

Jack follows the line of Rhys’ spine until it disappears beneath his shirt, bunched up near his shoulders. Rhys had been doing a lot of cleanup, tying up loose ends; Jack hasn’t had Rhys to himself in _weeks_.

He snaps his hips and Rhys’ mouth falls open around a silent gasp. Sure, Jack can fuck anyone he wants--but there’s no one who looks at him quite the way Rhys does, who takes everything Jack throws at him and asks for _more_. Jack picks up his pace, grinning when the bed frame starts to tap against the wall.

The bedroom isn’t soundproofed. Not that it matters--everyone already knows Rhys is warming Jack’s bed.

Jack digs his fingers into Rhys’ hips as he chases his finish, the hot tension in his gut winding up tight. He moans when it finally snaps and he’s coming, fucking into Rhys as he rides it out. Jack slows his hips as he feels his cock soften, getting too sensitive, and looks down at where he’s buried in Rhys’ ass. He slides his hands down to cup Rhys’ soft cheeks and pulls them apart to get a better view. His release is bright against Rhys’ flushed skin, dribbling around his cock and dripping down Rhys’ balls.

Eventually, he pulls out with a satisfied sigh and watches Rhys’ hole clench around nothing. He pats Rhys’ ass and rolls onto his back beside him, shucking off his pants and tossing them to the floor. Rhys mumbles something into the pillow, his hips jerking--he opens his eyes, big and brown, and looks at Jack imploringly.

With a snort, Jack props himself up on his elbow and rolls Rhys onto his back with his free hand. Rhys’ cute little cock is hard and curved toward his stomach, dripping with pre-come. Jack gets a hand around him, savoring the sweet little whimper that falls from Rhys’ lips. He strokes him and leans in to press his teeth against Rhys’ collarbone, biting at the tender skin there.

It doesn’t take long for Rhys to come--his breath coming shorter and his body going taut beneath Jack’s hand. His release spills over Jack’s hand, making a mess of Rhys’ stomach, and he gasps something that sounds like Jack’s name.

Jack nips at Rhys’ throat before pulling back; he lets go of Rhys’ softening cock and drags his fingers through the mess on Rhys’ stomach. He brings his fingers to Rhys’ mouth, presses them against Rhys’ lips until he parts them. Rhys looks up at him, sucking around his fingers, dragging his hot tongue over them.

When Jack slips his fingers out, they’re clean and covered in Rhys’ spit; he tugs at Rhys’ bottom lip before leaning down to kiss him. Rhys is sluggish and can’t keep up when Jack shoves his tongue in his mouth. This might just be Jack’s favorite Rhys--fucked out and pliable and so so _easy_. When Jack pulls away, Rhys tries to follow him, only to frown when he can’t crane his neck up far enough.

Jack chuckles, taking pity on Rhys and leaning down to kiss him again. “I got you Rhysie,” he murmurs against Rhys’ lips.

“I got you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> this series is a collaboration between myself and thirtysixsavefiles


End file.
